My uncle has a country place

That no one knows about.

He says it used to be a farm,

Before the Motor Law.

And on Sundays I elude the Eyes,

And hop the Turbine Freight

To far outside the Wire,

Where my white-haired uncle waits.



Jump to the ground

As the Turbo slows to cross the Borderline.

Run like the wind,

As excitement shivers up and down my spine.

Down in his barn,

My uncle preserved for me an old machine,

For fifty-odd years.

To keep it as new has been his dearest dream.



I strip away the old debris

That hides a shining car.

A brilliant red Barchetta

From a better, vanished time.

I fire up the willing engine,

Responding with a roar.

Tires spitting gravel,

I commit my weekly crime...



Wind-

In my hair-

Shifting and drifting-

Mechanical music-

Adrenalin surge...



Well-weathered leather,

Hot metal and oil,

The scented country air.

Sunlight on chrome,

The blur of the landscape,

Every nerve aware.



Suddenly ahead of me,

Across the mountainside,

A gleaming alloy air-car

Shoots towards me, two lanes wide.

I spin around with shrieking tires,

To run the deadly race,

Go screaming through the valley

As another joins the chase.



Drive like the wind,

Straining the limits of machine and man.

Laughing out loud

With fear and hope, I've got a desperate plan.

At the one-lane bridge

I leave the giants stranded at the riverside.

Race back to the farm, to dream with my uncle at the fireside